


The Turning (or the story of two Thorin Oakenshields and how they lived and died)

by Mozzarella



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Identities, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: hobbit_kink, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, Gen, Identity Issues, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2017-12-03 03:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dís means sister. It means that she was only ever a reflection, a faded recollection of her beloved brother Thorin, who died in the battle of Azanûlbizar, wielding nothing but an oaken branch. </p>
<p>The very same oaken branch, she carves into a vambrace, naming it her shield. The very same face she wears is that of her brother, long dead. She forgets the name Dís, kills the sister to bring back the brother. </p>
<p>For at their age, and with the loss of their father, Fili and Kili need an uncle more than a mother. Balin and Dwalin need a prince to serve more than a princess to protect. And most of all, her people need a leader, one they can follow, not a reflection of one. </p>
<p>(Done for a kink meme prompt: Thorin dies... Dís takes his place)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The last Durin

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme prompt found here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8908309t8908309
> 
> Originally, the prompt asked for Thorin's death in Fili and Kili's childhood, but I decided on before their births instead. 
> 
> Main pairing is Dís-as-Thorin/Bilbo, with slight hints of past Dwalin/Dís and more obvious Dís/herhusbandwhoInamed
> 
> Canon divergence, major character death, some ableism, and a great many other problems that stem from the shock of losing all your loved ones. Work in progress.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She missed her brother deeply, and wished he would return.

 

He never came back.

 

\--

 

She heard news of the Battle of Azanûlbizar, of her grandfather's death, of her father's disappearance, in increments. She mourned for them, but in her was a sense of acceptance.

She was worn down to less than herself, thinned from her attractive plumpness, her beard and hair graying at the edges. She forgot to groom herself at times, and her hair grew long and her beard, she clasped in a single braid.

One morning, when she looked at herself in the mirror, in what she realized was the first time in days, she was startled by the image of her brother staring back at her.

And then she laughed, breathlessly. Oh, how her brother would scold her when he returned. He'd always been the most insistent that she look and act the part of the princess. He had her well-fed and well-clothed for such a purpose, and he knew she was prone to anxieties, so he made sure she was comfortable.

The anxieties had piled up over the course of the dwarf battle against the orcs, and the loss of her patriarchs struck her hard. She looked so much more like Thorin now, with gray in her dark hair, her eyes sharper from lack of sleep, rings beneath them. And her beard, which she always kept in such a well-groomed state, was tied tiredly in style of her brother's, with the very same clasp that he used.

She missed her brother deeply, and wished he would return.

When they first heard wind of the dwarves returning to Dunland, Dis was the first to greet them. She donned the spare clothes of her brother, since she would be hindered if they knew she was a dwarf maiden rather than the commonly-seen dwarf man, and hurried down to the edge of man's town to greet them.

When she passed into the encampment, she could feel the stares on her back, and she could hear whispers of the (startlingly few) dwarves who were recovering from the battle.

"Like a ghost, returned from the dead."

"I fear I've gone quite mad, for I see our prince alive and well in our midst!"

"Torment! Torment and blood, do not plague me any longer, you wraith!"

Some were wailing, mad from the war, and Dis was chilled by their words. The chill turned to harsh, deathly cold, down in the pit of her stomach, when she saw it. Three crests of Durin, marked by black mourning.

Three. Not two.

She ran to the gray-haired dwarf, a familiar sight, and his tall but tired-looking brother, but her suspicions were realized when she saw, in Balin's hands, the clasp which once held her brother's beard, and the bead from his braid--the one she'd given him as a child.

When she reached the two, and Balin stood to greet her, she felt her knees fall out from underneath her. It was Dwalin who caught her, strong arms on her shoulders, and she could not ignore the shock in their eyes even as darkness overtook her.

 

\---

 

She hung by a thread, stretched thin in the time after her brother had gone.

Gone, she thought. Not dead. She didn't dare ask what fate had befallen her brother, and decided to keep herself busy, making up for his absence.

When Balin attempted to tell her what had happened to her brother, Dis did not listen. She stopped him at every turn, with firm denials about her brother's fate. She wasn't a fool. She heard the soldiers speak of a ghost when they saw her, but she forbade them to speak ever more of such things.

She did not think her brother dead, and those who were loyal to her and her line respected her wishes.

She found herself a bit healthier as the months passed. She no longer took care of her appearance. What time was there for that when she met the men at the forges in the town and worked the days with her brother's commissions? She did not have the same experience as her brother, nor the practice, but she was meticulous, and she knew the way of it from her brother.

He'd taught her, in some ways, though he insisted she needn't work so long as he did.

She pretended, playacted, in some way. She dressed in Thorin's clothes and made herself look as much like her brother as she could. She was gruff, and spoke little, and that seemed to remove whatever doubt the men in the forges had for her--"his"--sudden return.

She knew her brother in and out, and would confess she knew more simply because she didn't do as she was told. She did not stay in the house everyday, as she'd promised. She was meticulous, yes, but also quick in her work, and many of her days were spent atop the hill near the forges, where she observed her brother working.

Sometimes, she would visit, and observe him at a closer angle, asking him to teach her of the work he did.

She held on to every word, and in her charade, used his teachings to do as he did.

Some men who were regular to Thorin's forge commented on the difference in technique in his work, the inconsistency. Sharper and lighter, but thinner--far from shoddy, but different from his previous work.

She excused herself with stories of how battle needed more efficient blades--less material, but more craftsmanship, and fewer questions were asked as time went on.

She came and she went. Her nursemaid, an old dwarf woman that served the line of Durin for many years, disapproved of it, but she could do little to stop Dis from leaving every morning, dressed in her brother's garb, and returning with the day's earnings, aching arms, dirt-caked cheeks and tired eyes.

Dwalin accompanied her, a few weeks after she'd begun, curious as to what she intended to do. On the condition that he speak not a word about the deceit (it was fortunate that Dwalin was untalkative when he needed to be, even at the worst of times).

"You do not smith like your brother," he said one night, as they walked back to the settlement. "But you have the same determined look. And, I regret to say, the same anger, as he once had."

"I only hold his work for him until he returns," said Dis. "The forges stay untouched for too long, another ambitious man or dwarf might take it upon himself to profit from my brother's absence."

Dwalin was silent on that part. When Dis found herself at her own door, too lost in thought to have noticed at first, Dwalin placed his arms on her shoulders brought the two face to face.

"You've a strong heart, Dis," he said, taking a liberty where he oft took none. "And a strong spirit. But if you don't let your mind be at ease, I fear what might happen over the next winter."

She stared up at him with tired blue eyes, those which one filled with wonder at the sight of the strong, tall dwarf, who was so royal to the line.

She could have loved him, she knew. He was strong, stout, hale and hearty. He was both the solid, serious and strong warrior Thorin knew him to be, as well as the well-humored, hearty dwarf she saw outside of his duties.

There was little wonder left in her now, none to spare for the dwarf that might have once moved her heart.

"Thank you, Dwalin," she said, clasping his arms with her own--calloused from the work and marked by ash and soot. "Perhaps if Thorin returns by the winter, my mind shall be at ease."

And he was silent again, hands slipping from her shoulders and from beneath her hands.

This was how she left him, trudging through the door and closing it behind her.


	2. Dis means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis acts like a bit of a douche, has horrible self-esteem issues, and meets a special dwarf in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Ableism
> 
> Notes: I misfired in the first bit, forgot to mention that the third mourning crest was for Frerin, not Thrain, since Thrain disappeared rather than perished.
> 
> Also this chapter contains Dis/her-canon-husband-whom-I-named-in-one-part

The first blow came in the winter, one of the harshest in her memory.  
  
It was not the coldest winter she'd ever faced, but it was the harshest, all the same.  
  
There was a soldier in the tavern, a dwarf who had fought bravely in Azanûlbizar, but lost his leg and the use of his left arm as a result.  
  
And though Dis thought it, she eventually realized that brave soldiers did not always make for decent dwarves.  
  
"Must you go on with this charade, girl?" he questioned loudly when she came in from another day's smithing, cloak tight around her as the warmth from the fires left her hands and body. "Playing the part of a dead man?"  
  
A few heads, mostly those of men, turned at the dwarf's exclamation. Dis turned her head, the disdain in her eyes less a facsimile of her brothers and more her own.  
  
"The line of Durin is lost. There is no returning it. Piss-poor line it was, too, succumbing to madness and death, leaving its people to the dogs," he went on, deep in his cups and gesturing with his good arm. "And what do you do, princess? Without your men, what are you? Nothing more than a pauper girl, playacting a dead prince and waiting on a mad king."  
  
Dis stood, her mouth set in a thin line, her eyes sharp. "And what are you, oh lord of cripples and drunkards? Do you believe yourself to be above or below the stroke of a hand, or that of a fist? I am still of the line of Durin. As long as I still live, it is neither lost, nor shall it be subjected to ridicule."  
  
"You know nothing of the world, child. While you sit pretty in your little house, your grandfather's head adorns the White Orc's walls, and your brother's carcass rots in a field."  
  
She would have walked away, before this. She would have stayed silent, as she had been taught. Instead, she walked the other way, stood before the man, who smiled a crooked smile and spat at her feet.  
  
She held a dagger loosely in her hand, and she raised it to the level of his eyes.  
  
"You would kill a cripple with a knife? Is that the kind of princess you are?" the man said, his voice calm, though the blacks of his eyes had shrunk away in fear.  
  
"Do you think so little of yourself that you would call yourself a cripple?" she questioned lowly. "Do not bow the words of an angry child, old soldier. Do not resort to insult and cheap drink. You are a dwarf of Erebor. If there were any pride left in you, you would raise your own blade to any who bore you ill will. You would fight."  
  
She nicked him shallowly at the neck and took with her a few of the hairs in his scraggly beard as she withdrew.  
  
"It is no wonder that my grandfather fell in battle, if he had such weak-spirited cowards in his service," she said, louder this time.

If she sought to goad him, she was startled in her success, as his good arm lashed out and took her by the neck. Were it not for her beard, he would have choked her much more easily.  
  
His arm was strong, his grip steady, and she could not breathe.  
  
"Hold, old man! Would you murder the last of the royal line?" came a shout.  
  
The man seemed to come back to himself, his eyes shifting from rage to graveness as he loosed his grip. He looked to Dis when she found her footing, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he spoke again.  
  
"Whatever pride is left in my heart is the same that you inflame in me, in your foolishness... princess," he said tiredly. It was a transformation in him, shifting from an enraged drunk to a solemn old dwarven warrior. "Do not anger an old soldier, even one in my deplorable condition."  
  
"Do not insult my forefathers," Dis said breathlessly, coughing at intervals, "and we are even. And were it that you still had use of both your hands, I would have lost all feeling in my own."  
  
There was a concerned hand on her elbow, and she found another of her kinsmen (the one who stopped the old dwarf, she realized) looking at her with many parts anger and a few parts awe.  
  
"That was a foolish move, m'lady, and one that has caught too much attention," he said, pulling her away from the gazes of the men and women in the tavern, and the watchful eyes of her own kind.  
  
"I had to see if even the hardiest of our warriors were truly broken, in the way that they claimed. I see now that they are bent, but with enough fight left in them to last through harsher days," Dis said, massaging her neck beneath her beard.  
  
The dwarf beside her--shorter than she, with a kinder face and fair hair the color of barley--shook his head disbelievingly.  
  
"You looked much like your brother, when you spoke," he remarked. "Sounded like him, too, in some ways. He always knew how to rile them all up--the soldiers, I mean. Enough the fuel their rage in battle."  
  
Dis stopped where they'd walked a few paces out of the tavern. The snow was just above the soles of her boots, and it was falling softly, catching at her hair and beard.  
  
"You were there," she murmured.  
  
"I was young. Far from the front lines. My father kept me away, many times, but even with the little fighting I had to do, I could see how gruesome it was. I assisted in the medical tents, and watched the hardiest of dwarves endure agonies upon agonies without rest."  
  
His voice, a pleasant, jovial lilt, shattered near the end of his explanation. It shook, and he shuddered many times before he could collect himself again. Dis was silent, careful not to startle him.  
  
"I attended to your brother," he said then, after a long breath, his voice still broken. "I know you wait for him. I know you keep vigil, and wear your hair in the way he did, for that very reason."  
  
Dis shook, and his hand clasped her elbow to still her. She snarled, snatching back her arm and turning away.  
  
"Did you ever hear of his fate?"  
  
Dis' mouth was dry when she spoke, after a long silence punctuated by the snow melting into her hair.  
  
"I deny what I know to be true," she said weakly. "And from the mouths of the very dwarves I trust the most, I have forbidden the recount."

"Do you know what I am?" she questioned, facing the fair-haired dwarf once more. "I am the sister of Thorin and Frerin, sons of Thrain II, son of Thror. That is what my name means."  
  
The dwarf's eyes widened, but he listened still.  
  
"Dis. Sister. Sister to two brothers--one too young for battle and one whom she loved deeply, whose face and heart she shared, more than has ever been shared between a brother and sister. Frerin cared little for me, and we were apart for months at a time, for he lived with our father and worked with traders, and I was hidden away where I would be safer," she expounded bitterly. "But Thorin chose, between our father and brother, and myself. He chose to stay with me, to care for me. I grew up with him as my father and brother and beloved. Mahal took away the golden hair from my infancy and gave me Thorin's dark locks, and the sharpness of his features. As though I was made in his image.  
  
"But what is a reflection without that which it mirrors? What am I sister to, without my brothers? I am nothing! Nothing but the hope that, perhaps, my brother will come back to me."  
  
She was crying. She had been crying for a while now, but only when she could no longer breathe through her words did she realize.  
  
There were menfolk passing by, some curious enough to take notice. The fair-haired dwarf took his cloak and draped the hood over her head, pulling her along down a path less taken, back to the settlement.  
  
When they stopped at the edge, peering down at the warm dots that made up the homely fires, he spoke, his voice no longer broken.  
  
"Where is the pride that was left in you?" he questioned softly.  
  
"Gone," Dis said emptily. "Gone with my brother. Gone with Thorin, who I know to be dead, though I have denied it for this long."  
  
Her knees were weak, and she sat herself down on a smooth stone, her hands shaking.  
  
"You are bent nearly double," he said, "but you are not broken. You are not glass, nor a mere reflection of your brother. You are your own self. Deny it ever more but do not forget the strength which that lent you through the long winters you spent alone."  
  
She looked up, and for one small moment, perceived him as a star, though it was an illusion of the moonlight through the trees and nothing more.  
  
"I would," she said quietly. "I would hear of how my brother fell."  
  
He smiled. A sad smile, but a heartening one.  
  
"He did not fall. He stood to the last breath, and gave us the greatest of triumphs."  
  
They walked down the path, made clear by the round moon emerging from the snow clouds. They retired to the dwarf's house, into which Dis was welcomed. They introduced each other, properly, for the first time.  
  
His name was Hudri, son of Njar. He spoke to her of her brother, of the Pale Orc defeated, of the oaken branch and the last battle which drove the orcs back into the mines of Moria.  
  
In the dim of the fires, it was he who held her calloused hand as she slept, dreaming of Thorin, a mighty warrior fit to be king, oaken branch in one hand and sword in the other, rallying the greatest of Erebor's warriors against the orcs that had taken over Moria.  
  
She dreamt of the mountain she had not seen since she was barely more than an infant, jewels in her fair hair, her hands clutching a dark mane as strong arms carried her away from the kingdom set aflame.  
  
She dreamt of the two in tandem, the image of a kingly dwarf and the image of a lonely mountain, reclaimed by the hero in her head from the dragon. She dreamt of orcs destroyed, of a mine returned to the dwarves.  
  
She dreamt of herself--but she could not see herself, past the image of her brother.  
  
She could not see...


	3. The dragon pipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, Thorin tired of sharing his pipe, and carved her one of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter led me to studying Thorin's expressions throughout the movie, and the pipe he smoked at the beginning. Dis/her husband [Hudri]

_There was a legend among dwarves, told in whispers among men, though such stories often belonged to women, carried in sons and daughters and once more through new mothers._  
  
It was a story Dis herself knew, from the mouth of her own grandfather, who even in madness remembered the pride of his line.  
  
"Durin was called Deathless because he lived for many ages, longer than any dwarf that has ever lived in Middle Earth," he said one night, tucking the child into his side and running his thick-ringed fingers through her hair--gold, with wisps of black now replacing it. "But there was another reason, one unremembered by those who are not of the line."  
  
Frerin had come forward, sitting at his grandfather's feet and grasping his sister's small ankle, laying a playful kiss on the heel, at the age when he still held some childish affection for her (lost after their separation). Thorin sat close, tending to his grandfather's armor alongside his father.  
  
"For you see, Durin's spirit is reborn with every generation that came after his passing. His great wisdom, his strength, and all the nobility that thickened his bones and warmed his blood would make itself known in his heirs.  
  
"In the most desperate of times," Thror said wistfully, "he himself returns. I have heard tell of more desperate times, when the great dwarf kings lost themselves in battle, fought hard and long until victory was gained. And they swore on their mothers' beards that they were not themselves in those moments, but Durin, who blessed them with his own strength and courage."  
  
Thorin looked on, his gaze falling on Dis, though she knew that his thoughts were far away.  
  
"The line of Durin has carried this blessing to this day," said Thror. "For when a great leader is needed, his soul shall return in the body of his kin. His mind shall be molded anew, and where there was once the shadow of a leader, a true king shall stand.  
  
"No doubt, in coming battle, we shall see that king stand before us once more."

_  
-_

  
_"He rallied our forces, drove the orcs back into the mountain. It was a great victory in the midst of disastrous defeat, and we spent the night mourning our dead."_

Dis awoke early, dawn's first light on the horizon, still far from the hut. Stretching in cat-like satisfaction, she rolled out of bed, reaching out to stroke Hudri's soft yellow hair.

In the meager light, she slipped on her clothing, gathering her hair into a loose tail and wrapping herself in an old cloak, which she had taken to wearing for the cold.

She had another, a deep, royal blue, the finest of cloaks fit for the finest of princesses--but she kept it hidden away, her very own treasure trove of fine things her patriarchs had gifted her with. After all, she no longer fit the description. The finest of princesses did not smith with rough tools or work day in and day out for men and their meager pay. They did not get into fights with old soldiers or drink themselves into volatile dispositions.

She leaned upon the fence, boots in the crunching snow, finding no place to sit, and smoked in the quiet of the morning.

_"He did not fall. He leaned upon his sword, far from any of us, a branch of an old oak in hand, and he stood for hours while we tended to those who still lived."_

It was Thorin who'd taught her to smoke, though Frerin sent her the means by which she continued the habit.

The elder brother refused her many times over, repeating in a drone that it was an unladylike thing to do, a mockery of her old nursemaid.

One night, when the last of the gold in her hair shone, the rest of her locks overwhelmed by a deep black (her grandfather no longer looked at her with the same sort of love that he had before, perhaps since there was so little gold left in her to love), she sat beside her brother, braiding his hair as he smoked.

When she asked again, he stopped puffing for a moment, and after a small thought, handed her the pipe, one he'd carved himself, fine woodwork for someone who handled steel and stone.

She did not even cough, though it burned her throat upon entry.

It became their ritual, whenever she could sneak out from under her nursemaid's nose. Thorin would return after dark, food prepared for his supper, and after washing and eating, Dis would accompany him to the bench outside their home to smoke.

Eventually, Thorin tired of sharing his pipe, and carved her one of her own. It was a simple thing, a squared-off bowl carved with the image of an old tree on either side. Its shank was thin and simple, thinner than Thorin's, which had been carved with the image of a dragon wrapping around the body of it.

She wondered idly where the dragon pipe might have ended up. Thorin, she assumed, brought it with him to the long battle, perhaps to soothe him on the nights he could be soothed.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, imagining that it was late evening, that the stars were clear and she was sitting once more beside her brother.

But the stars did not come out in winter, and the cold was pervading. She could not imagine, for very long, that her brother sat beside her, for he was so warm against her side.

__"It was Balin who went to collect him. When the old warrior returned, he brought nothing but the oaken branch which Thorin had used to defend himself. It was never made clear what happened to Thorin's body. Perhaps it stumbled, for he stood high on the rock, and fell into a crevice. Perhaps it was mangled, for he'd taken many strokes before his death. There was no helping it. Thousands of dwarves dead, fewer dwarves left to bury them... the land choked us with the scent of the dead and all we could do was endure it."  
  
Hudri shuddered, and Dis took his hand and stroked his back as the memory overwhelmed him._  
  
_ "You're freezing."  
  
Dis puffed out a ring, smiling softly at the effect.  
  
"How do you know?" Dis returned as Hudri joined her by the fence.  
  
The blond removed one of his gloves and smacked her softly on the cheek with his palm. "Hm, I was right, you are freezing."  
  
"That was a cheat."  
  
"That was concern, my lady," he said, emphasizing the title. "You should come back inside."  
  
"A little while longer," Dis said softly, her eyes watering--but only from the smoke.  
  
Hudri seemed to pull her, gently, but thought better of it when he saw her face. He tucked a graying hair behind her ear and offered his gloves, which she refused, hanging onto her pipe decisively.  
  
Instead of asking again, he stood at the fence beside her, their shoulders touching.  
  
Again, Dis closed her eyes, and this time, she could pretend better.  
  
She smoked a number of minutes more, wondered about the dragon pipe again, imagining it buried like a forgotten treasure beneath the earth that had settled over the battlefield.  
  
She imagined Thorin's warmth, and his beautiful smiles (freely given, though his manner was often gruff), and imagined an evening that did not end, an evening where the stars were out, where morning did not come to take her family away.  
  
She imagined these things until the sunlight blinded her, gathering from the hills and stirring the little huts, and the bigger houses of men. _  
  
 _"He did not fall."_  
_  
Hudri ushered her inside when she was ready, smiling brilliantly, putting even the sun itself to shame. _  
  
 _"The last we ever saw of him, he stood, until we saw no more of him."_  
  
_ They bathed together, no illusions of propriety between the two. _  
  
 _"A true king, standing to the very end."__  
  
And Dis greeted the morning with a smile of her own, tucking her pipe away for another night.


	4. Frerin and the Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Ered Luin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two relatively short parts that make up a decent length of a chapter.

She DID love Frerin. It wasn't something she would deny if asked, and she would never lie when she said that yes, she did love her brother.   
  
She never asked if she'd loved him, near the end. She knew he loved her in the beginning.   
  
In the beginning, she had been ten years old, a walking babe, when Frerin carried her out of Erebor. His hair was fair, a dull sort of gold, and she'd pulled it out some when she was jostled.   
  
Thorin took her from him when they reached the end of the bridge, telling Frerin to make sure their grandfather was alright. Dis remembered being terrified, clutching Thorin tight when the dragon roared one last time, sending a ball of fire right out the gate. She watched as it caught a couple of dwarf stragglers, watched them burn for a moment before burying her face into Thorin's hair.   
  
Later, Frerin cheered her by making a thin crown out of all the yellow hair she'd pulled from him.   
  
Frerin had always done a good job of cheering her. She resented his leaving when he went the trade route, and he did not send her letters, apart from when it suited him, or on days of obligation, such as on her naming days.   
  
The rest of the year was dedicated to resentment, but on their naming days, Dis would remember and Frerin would think, of the time there was only laughter between them.   
  
She realized how much she truly missed him when he sent her a special sort of pipeweed, that which he'd acquired from a faraway town of gentlefolk. She'd sent him a letter on his naming day--telling him of how Thorin had taught her how to smoke and had carved him her own piece. It was the first and only time he'd sent her a gift outside of her naming day.   
  
They laughed together many months before the battle. She never had the chance to see him off.   
  
But they laughed together, and many months after his death, all the resentment whittled away with his passing, that was all Dis could think about when she thought about her brother. That, and the smell of old toby, the pipeweed he'd sent her many years ago.

-

In the third year of their courtship, when Dis had taken to wearing Hudri's bead in her hair and prospered at the forge for her more delicate craftsmanship (in war, she would not have been favored, but the Dunlendings had little use for war tools in this time), the crops of Dunland began to fail.   
  
"There is little gold and silver can buy us now," Hudri said once, sitting at the table with Dwalin and Balin, who listened as he reported his findings. "The price for food has risen, and the farmers would rather sell to their own people than to dwarven settlers. We've taken to hunting in the forests, but finding game is becoming more difficult. The animals have more sense than we do, moving away from this famine."   
  
"Aye, the only thing that will buy us good food is more good food, resources we aren't willing to trade," Dwalin agreed darkly. "There'll be nothing left to us soon."   
  
"And the men are becoming restless," Dis said, serving them their dinner. Dwalin offered to help with the setting, and soon they were settled, eating their meal slowly so as to savor it. "Master Akar has observed the drunker ones threatening the dwarves at the inn, speaking poison and playing on the fears of their people."  
  
"They don't believe we belong here," Balin sighed. "They never have."   
  
"We've never given them a reason to think it," Hudri murmured. "And now, in hardship, they are more than willing to be rid of any more mouths to feed."   
  
Dis took a long, measured draft of her ale before speaking, slowly and clearly. "We must leave."   
  
"How can we? Should we leave our kin behind, after we led them to this place?" Dwalin questioned.   
  
"I mean, we must all leave," Dis clarified. "All of us. Every dwarf. Man, woman, and child."   
  
"We can't--"  
  
"My grandfather brought us to Dunland to survive," Dis said. "This famine will not help us do that. Master Balin, you spoke of a settlement of dwarves a little ways away from here--"  
  
"Much farther than that, lass," Balin said. "But yes. There are dwarves who have found a life in the blue mountains. In Ered Luin. They are humble, but they live well. A mining settlement."   
  
"We could go there," said Dis. "Ask for refuge. Perhaps even settle there."   
  
"It will be difficult to convince them to leave," said Dwalin, referring to the people in their charge.   
  
"Nothing that matters is ever easy, Dwalin," Dis said, clasping his hand warmly.   
  
If his eyes glanced up to the bead in her hair before looking down once more, it didn't bear thinking.   
  
"Aye," he said, one word speaking volumes.   
  
"It will be a trial," said Balin. "But whatever you decide, lass, we are with you."   
  
Dis nodded. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow we begin preparations. Within the month, we ride to Ered Luin."


	5. The first dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis dreams of lives that are not hers, but could have been, had things gone differently. 
> 
> In the first dream, she was a golden princess of an Erebor that had never known dragon fire.

On the road to Ered Luin, one night in the caravan (for they had just one night to travel to a place where they could rest), Dis had five dreams.

In the first dream, she had kept her golden hair, and had been married to a strong-armed dwarf with a hearty laugh and a solemn, sweet eye, his devotion to her unparalleled. In her hands she stroked his beard, and with her lips she kissed the top of his head.

  
 _"If you will have me," he said, as though there had ever been any doubt.  
_

_She was a princess of Erebor, her hair in tight clasps in the front and long and flowing behind her. She resembled her proud brother much, though she had a softness in her smile and a twinkle in her eyes and the sun shone off her long hair like the most precious of metals.  
_

_She knew her choice would be well-received by her family. Thorin trusted him, Frerin liked him in equal parts for his heartiness and his loyalty to the royal line. She loved him for the time he'd spent protecting her when she was but a walking babe, tripping on her skirts until he picked her up in a run, carrying her over his shoulders as he joined Thorin's company.  
_

_When she grew, he stood by her, guarding her when she went out to the markets of Dale.  
_

_They were colorful, full of life and of prosperity, a mark of her own kingdom and those that found itself allied to it. And never once did she doubt it was her kingdom, for though Thorin would rule, she had his heart, and the heart of Frerin who would come after. She had her father's love, and her grandfather's pride, and she was a princess whose beauty and shape was a sign of fecundity, her hair the bright gold that all of Erebor revered.  
_

_When they were wed, all of Erebor rejoiced.  
_

_Dwalin wore her bead of mithril and blue diamond with unfailing devotion and happiness in his eyes, and she, the princess of Erebor, knew no greater joy than this.  
_

_  
_She woke from this dream in mid-evening, when the stars were bright above them. She offered her place in the caravan to two children, riding together on the back of a long-haired pony with their father.

She was left walking, as some of the men were doing, and thought nothing of her weariness. She did not want to fall back asleep, knowing that her dreams would not be with her when she woke. 

"What're ye doing down there, then?" 

She had no time to argue (she was quite sure he planned it so that she would have no time to spare) before he stopped the pony beside her, dismounting only to lift her onto it, amidst her loud but whispered protests. 

"It wouldn't do t'have the princess-in-exile walking like a commoner," Dwalin said good-humoredly, patting the pony's side and then the side of her leg in the same manner. 

"I can't ride," she said stubbornly. "I'll only fall asleep, and then... fall. There's no need for this."

Dwalin was undeterred. "Well why didn't ye say so?" 

It was something of a wonder to Dis that she did not complain when Dwalin swung up behind her, taking the reins and letting her hold the saddle's horn for balance. She rested, wondering vaguely where Hudri was, knowing in the morning that she would care much more than she did at this very moment. 

For the other Dis still lingered, the Dis with the golden hair, the princess of an Erebor that had never known the name Smaug. The Dis who loved her Dwalin, for there had been nothing to change between them. 

She would be gone in the morning, this golden princess of Erebor. But for now, she reveled in the warmth of the one she knew loved her, even if by now, there was nothing left for the two of them in that regard.

"I could have loved you," she whispered on the edge of sleep, head slumped forward, half-resting him. 

"Aye," he said softly, as the pony plodded on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic'll end differently but I'm seriously shipping Dis/Dwalin so hard right now.
> 
> I'm seriously just torturing myself here.


	6. Ered Luin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new start for Thorin Oakenshield, born Dis, daughter of Thrain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd update this, but I did! So... here. Two years later.

Their travels were long and hard, half a year spent in the wild and half spent in villages of Men. Dis wore furs to hide her swelling belly, a result of stresses turning into pleasures in the wild when Hudri sought to warm her heart and her bed.

She breathed a sigh of relief—punctuated by a kick from within her gut—when Balin announced that they were near. When the thick, heavy treetops—some leaves faded to autumn colors and ready to fall—cleared from their path, Dis saw before her the great mountain settlement of Ered Lindon. The snowy top of the mountain before them led down to lush, green lands. The villages were small, but settled nicely on plains and precipices, a warm sight for the cold travelers. 

“Careful! Careful now!” Hudri said, nearly cracking his head open falling off his pony when he hurried to help her off hers. “Be careful!” 

“Be careful that I don't make sure you can't _make_ any more babies if you keep coddling me,” Dis said grumpily, swatting his hand away and dropping down with relative ease. It came with another kick, but Dis had gotten good at predicting them enough not to flinch (much) when they happened. Her fur coat fell heavily over the front of her body, hiding the bump of a new life effectively. 

A hard lesson they'd learned in their travels—women did not gain the kindnesses of many men, at least not true kindness. Kindness without cost was something the villages of Men did not seem to know. No, whatever kindness was offered to dwarrowdams was one looked upon with wariness, and trust was hard-given in the wild.

Dis had heard tell of the fears of many of the women, those who did not hide their nature and were leered at or laughed at, poked and prodded when they went about town—a novelty, to the Manfolk, whose own women had no beards to speak of. She herself continued the charade of her brother, if only to find work in the forges in the villages they passed through. Men were strange when it came to their women, and Dis had no patience for such difficulties, especially not from unhelpful strangers.

In every town, Dis introduced herself as Thorin Oakenshield for those who filed papers and did dealings with her and her people. Her name was sought for every small transaction, every enormous issue, and she dealt with each with the grace of years of training. Finances, diplomacy, ruling, they all came naturally to her, even if her lessons were a formality, and nothing more.

After all, two princes before her, each hale and hearty, and a father still in his prime—they didn't expect her to inherit the throne. They didn't expect much of anything back then.

But of the happier things Dis did not expect, she found herself with child one day, by word of her old nursemaid (older than she expected her to live, a constant presence in Dis' life that she appreciated, but never liked) when she fell ill and vomited into bushes every other day.

Well, the announcement was happy. The actual pregnancy, less so, as it made it more difficult for Dis to earn her keep (though Hudri insisted she needn't do a thing, it was a matter of pride she could not let go). Dwalin sided with her, saying that a king's judgment ought to be trusted, a statement that surprised Dis in its certainty.

She was king.

She... she was King in Exile, last of the line of Durin, and despite her playacting as her brother (nearly living his life now, out in the open), that title was all too real, something she couldn't take off once she came home to a husband after a hard day's work as somebody else.

She was king, and she had an heir. “The line of Durin shall not fall,” she murmured to herself, smiling into the night.

Arriving in the Blue Mountains had been a welcome relief, and even with some suspicion among its people, they were kin. Trustworthy kin, who threw them a feast upon their arrival and helped them settle as they began to plan new houses, which they themselves would build while the locals provided the space. Dis expected to build her own house—they'd been self-sufficient, in the wild, and nothing was ever given for free there. She did not expect to be given a house.

“You are our king,” said one older dwarf, bowing so often that Dis feared for the integrity of his back. “We would be poor hosts and subjects to allow you to continue on in tents and carts!” 

“I've been living in tents and carts just fine for the past year,” Dis sighed, but thanked him profusely for their trouble. They settled into the stone house, a warm, welcoming place that seemed to ease the child in her womb to restfulness. Dis, however, was not so restful, and wished to see the rest of the village, and how her people were faring. 

Quietly, while Balin, Dwalin, and Hudri drank and toasted at the table, she slipped out the back, dressed in her fur coat and a sword tucked into her side.

The settlement was fully dwarvish, though she saw lights in the valley that spoke of others, though whether Men or Elves, she could not guess.

She raised her hood and entered the marketplace where most of the dwarves seemed to gather, a road where pubs lined one side and stalls covered the rest of it. The stones beneath her feet—cobblestones laid down—made for good walking, and were vastly different from the muddy paths and dangerous roads they'd once had to survive.

This was their new home, and it was beautiful.

Too busy wondering at the sights, she did not see the two younger dwarves until they all but collided with her, one of them so big that he would have knocked her over if the other one hadn't grabbed her hand.

“M'sorry! So sorry. My brother, he stole my bit of cheese and we were just havin' a tussle—”

“It's alright,” Dis said, shaking her head, freed of the hood she'd donned. 

“Oi! Ye... you're Thorin Oakenshield, aren't ya?” 

Dis' eyes widened and she immediately covered the younger dwarf's mouth, shushing him as she replaced her hood. The dwarf in front of her kept talking, or so she assumed, but shut right up when she removed her hand. She bent down to pick up the hat he'd dropped helping her (and what an odd hat it was) and returned it to the gaping dwarrow.

“Yes, but some discretion would be appreciated,” Dis said finally. The other, larger dwarf (though younger, it seemed to her) stuttered out a “Your Majesty”, and Dis sighed. She didn't realize her charade would get her this far, but why should she be surprised? She'd been wearing Thorin's skin for so long, she might as well be Thorin to everyone but herself. Perhaps even _to_ herself, though being with Hudri reminded her just how much of her was still Dis. 

“Of course! Ah, sorry. We dinnae mean to bump inta ya.”

“It's of no consequence,” Dis said. 

“We've, uh, heard a lot about ya.” 

“Have you, now?” Dis said, surprised. She didn't think that the name of Thorin would go further than the documents she signed and the people she met, but it seemed as though news (and gossip) traveled quicker than she'd anticipated. 

“All the work ya did, earnin' your keep even when you didn't have ta. It was a huge honor to have ya stayin' at our house, it really was.” 

Dis stopped. “Your house?” she repeated.

“Oh aye, it's our house. I hope it's suitable for the king an' all, we tried to keep it spotless,” said the dwarf happily, though the thunderous look on Dis' face had his eyes widening under his hat. 

“Is it... not good?” he asked, gulping. 

“Nonsense,” Dis said harshly, then softer, laying a hand on the dwarf's arm. “Where are you staying?” she asked. 

“With our cousin, fer the most part,” he answered. “Well I mean he's been stayin' with us, in our place, before our place became your place and his place became our place. A bit dusty but right and warm fer the cold, ya know? He cannae take care of himself, not since the battle.” 

Dis' heart tightened. Azanulbizar was years ago, but the wounds were lasting. 

“I'm sorry,” she said. “For forcing you out of your own home, I—”

“Oi, now! We never said that. Did we, Bombur?” 

“Nah, of course not!” the dwarf Bombur said, nodding quickly, his impressive ginger mustache bouncing up and down. “We volunteered! Anythin' for the great Thorin Oakenshield,” he added, looking shy at the end of it. 

“I'm not... I'm not all that,” Dis said, shaking her head in denial. 

“Well excuse me, yer majesty, but to us, ye are,” said the hatted dwarf solemnly, his smile twinkling still in his eyes. 

Dis cracked a small smile herself. “Well I appreciate what you've done. And I promise, once we find a place to build our own house, we will return yours, and find a way to repay you—” 

“No need fer that!” said the older brother quickly. “After all... bein' on the king's good side is more than enough. If we are, that is.”

Dis smiled wryly. “Well then, I hope the name Thorin Oakenshield helps you as much as you think it will. But tell me, what are your names? So I know who deserves my appreciation for such a fine and noble act to the royal line.” 

“Bofur, majesty, and Bombur,” said the elder, gesturing to himself and his redheaded brother. “At your service,” they said in unison, bowing. Not once did Bofur remove the hat on his head, and Dis found it endearing. 

“And your cousin?” 

“Bifur. He's, ah, he's odd. If ya ever meet him, he'll be the one with an axe in his skull,” Bofur said, “and he only speaks Khuzdul. But he's lovely! Absolutely lovely. Maybe we could bring him to see ya sometime, if you're not, ah, busy with... kingly duties, an' all that.” 

“It would be an honor,” Dis said genuinely. “Thank you, again, Bofur and Bombur. You've done me and mine a great kindness I won't soon forget.” 

“It's really no trouble, your majesty. No trouble at all.” 

“Call me...” Dis began, her gaze dropping to the ground, the decision rolling 'round her head like an iron ball. 

“Call me Thorin.” 

 


End file.
